


takes a village

by kimeric



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Gen, baby klingon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 13:30:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18572473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimeric/pseuds/kimeric
Summary: Ash Tyler doesn't send his son to Boreth. Michael (and the crew) cope with having a baby on board.





	takes a village

Halfway through another Tilly's rapid-fire account of the sphere data, Ash's comm gives a subtle but unmissable click. With a whispered excuse directed at the glossy conference table, he stands and leaves. No explanation. No hint of where he's going or who contacted him.

It's not the first time.

Michael shoots the captain a glance, but he's busy gesturing to Tilly to continue, then Saru asks a question, and Tilly, who might be the only person who looks as confused as Michael feels, recovers her train of thought and resumes her report. 

Across the table, Philippa meets Michael's eyes. She's smiling, but only slightly, the way the _real_ Philippa would never. 

She knows something. Michael grits her teeth and tries to concentrate on the mission at hand. Ash Tyler is no longer her problem. He can keep his secrets.

*

Despite tracing every logical argument to its definite conclusion and knowing she's better off minding her own business, impulse scrambles Michael's calculations. "Philippa, wait." 

There's approximately sixteen meters between them, but the corridor is deserted and Philippa slows her gait even further, as though she was waiting for Michael to intercept her. It is prudent, yes, and no doubt paranoia comes with the territory at Section 31, but Michael reminds herself that Philippa is Terran, too, and therefore dangerous.

She chooses her words carefully. "You once asked me to trust you."

Philippa arches her brow, says nothing.

"If there's something we should know about Ash's mission…" Michael shouldn't be asking. Special ops aren't so special if everyone knows what they're up to. Philippa knows she knows this, but she hasn't walked away yet. She seems amused. "Between the red angel and the sphere data, we can't afford any more mistakes." 

Spock's face flashes through her mind, his younger self and the security footage of his supposed murderous escape melding into one. The bitter memory of Amanda's disappointment gnaws at her insides. There will be a reckoning, soon.

_One thing at the time._

"If you have concerns about Ash Tyler," Philippa tells her, "you should address them with Ash Tyler."

It's not the worst advice, but Michael still decides ousted Terran emperors are utterly unhelpful. 

*

The seventh time it happens, they're in the mess. Ash sits alone, not quite brooding over a data pad that can't contain anything too Top Secret or he wouldn't be perusing its contents in full view of other officers. 

Michael shouldn't be watching him. She has fifteen minutes before she's on duty again and her noodles won't eat themselves. Beside her, Kayla is telling another funny story, albeit with many colorful asides from Joann. Dimly, Michael thinks they have started completing each other's sentences and feels a rush of second-hand satisfaction for her friends. 

All the way across the mess, Ash starts and taps his black badge with the tips of his fingers. He's standing and collecting his tray in the next breath, moving with the singular purpose of a soldier on a mission. Or a double agent summoned by his whoever holds his leash. 

He has a short head start on Michael, who makes her excuses and follows him quickly out into the hallway. She only loses sight of him for a beat. The corridor bends: the nearest elevators are to the right, quarters to the left. She picks the latter, reasoning that if he's chosen the former then she's already lost him and pursuit is therefore a moot point. 

Just before the next fork, she catches sight of him. It helps that Ash is so tall and that his uniform is still that annoyingly flattering Section 31 black. Michael suppresses any kind of visual enjoyment and tails her quarry into the nearest wing of crew quarters. 

It's lucky that no one else is around to see her edge around the next corner. She's not sure how she would explain what she's doing if anyone asked. _I'm suspicious of a known Klingon spy who is also my former lover and a Starfleet officer_ sounds a lot like some of that Section 31 paranoia might be rubbing off on her.

Ash unlocks an inconspicuous door with palm print and eye scan. Just before the sliding doors seal shut behind him, Michael hears a wail from inside the room.

*

Regulations are clear: Michael should report her suspicions to Security and let the competent personnel investigate. Whatever Section 31 is up to, whatever they've got Ash doing, it's above her paygrade. And Ash Tyler is not her problem. 

She doesn't turn back. Ash has been assigned quarters all the way across the ship from her own, on a different deck. Someone has tried very hard to make it so she wouldn't have to see him if she doesn't want to. Michael thinks of Tilly, or Saru, or even their new captain, and hits the doorbell.

At first, there's no sign that the room's occupant is in. Michael doesn't let herself wonder if he's only delayed because he's concealing evidence. 

The sliding doors open abruptly. 

"Michael." Ash is still in his Section 31 blacks, but otherwise, up close, he looks just as she remembers. His dark hair is perhaps a little longer. This, too, is inconvenient.

"Ash. May I—" she asks, at the same time as he steps back and says, "Would you like to…"

Some awkwardness is to be expected. 

Michael reminds herself that she's here on a professional matter, investigating a hunch. If you can call it that. She squares her shoulders and marches into the room. 

Nothing about the space suggests nefarious deeds; the furnishings are Starfleet-standard, functional and tidy. She might as well be in her own quarters, the half of said quarters that doesn't bear Tilly's personal touch, that is.

Except here, there is the cradle.

The wailing comes again. It's easy to pinpoint the source now, but somehow Michael's mind refuses to wrap itself around what she's hearing until Ash crosses the room and retrieves a squirming, gray-white bundle from the bassinet. 

"Bad dreams," Ash says, and his voice somehow makes it all real. "I can have the computer monitor basic needs, but bad dreams? AI can't cope with that." He moves as he speaks, shifting his weight from foot to foot and cradling the infant, settling him into the crook of his arm. When he looks up at Michael, his smile fades. "He's my son."

"I gathered." 

Michael is very smart. She has already computed that the ridges on infant's forehead and the pallor of his skin can only mean one thing. (It could also mean that Ash had stolen a Klingon baby for some reason, but even after he killed Dr. Culber and tried to strangle her, she still has to work to believe him capable of pure malice. That part is neither logical, nor smart.) 

"How…" She catches herself and backs away. "I'm sorry. It's none of my business. I should leave you to…" 

"Was there something you needed?" 

She shakes her head. "It can wait." Indefinitely. Her Vulcan upbringing dictates that she should take distance from the sudden wave of emotion that has risen in her chest. That requires taking distance from Ash. As she has been doing. 

Ash opens his mouth to speak but she's back in the corridor and walking away before he can stop her.

*

Captain Pike slides the holo-reader across the desk and leans back in his seat. "Thank you, Commander. Carry on." He looks tired. They all are; between briefing Starfleet about the sphere data, running their own covert investigation into Spock's disappearance, and trying to make sense of the red angel entity, no one has been getting much sleep.

Perhaps that is why Michael stands rooted to the spot until Pike glances back at her. 

"Is there something else?" He might be tired and new to the Discovery, but he is a known quantity, led by principles Michael understands. More importantly, he isn't Lorca. He has always encouraged his crew to speak freely and he would never use what he is told in confidence against his officers.

Michael has to believe that. "Sir, it's about Specialist Tyler."

"Ah." Pike sits up straighter, but doesn't seem surprised. 

"You knew." About the baby. About Ash's son being aboard the Discovery. Section 31 may be good at moving in shadows, but a transfer of this magnitude could hardly have been organized without the captain's knowledge and approval. 

This is old news. Michael has already worked out the logical pathways connecting each decision; it's the emotional fallout she's still processing.

Captain Pike inclines his head, looking pained. "I don't particularly like secrets. But this…"

When he doesn't say anything more, Michael feels compelled to ask: "Is the Discovery safe for children? We are a research vessel, frequently bound for uncertain situations."

"Yes, we have a knack for attracting trouble. On the other hand, would he be safer aboard a Section 31 ship?" 

"They have stealth technology," Michael points out, but it's half-hearted because no, Ash should not have to be separated from his son. No parent should. (Not all parents have a choice.) "Perhaps Qo'noS would be a better alternative." The Klingon homeworld is not without its perils, but the war is over and surely the Chancellor's son would be safe there.

Or as safe as any child ever is.

Michael's tangled emotions manifest in an itch down the back of her neck and all along her spine, not unlike the searing blast of an explosion, long ago. 

"I may not agree with Specialist Tyler's chosen division, their methods or their tactics," Pike says, "but I see no reason to believe he has not weighed every option when it comes to the safety and comfort of his child. Do you?"

Some days, Michael almost misses Lorca. 

"No, sir." She's not quite dismissed, but Pike's knowing smile as she turns to leave reminds her of Philippa's. Michael feels irritated for the rest of the day. 

*

Early childhood development in Klingons is very poorly documented, compared to other races. Even so, what Michael finds in the ship's database is not reassuring. By this stage, Ash's son should be larger. His pallor does not concern her, for all that it is a sticking point among Klingons, but his diminutive size could be a sign of malnutrition or illness. 

She can't bring herself to approach Culber about it and chances are the other medical staff might let slip that she was asking questions about Klingon babies where he can overhear—which leaves Saru. 

After Kaminar, visiting his quarters is like stepping into a holodeck imitation of the real thing. Michael can see where the commander has attempted to recreate the lush green of the forest floor, the intricate lattice of branches that makes up the jungle canopy. Flowers bloom in clear containers that mimic the necessary growth conditions, lending the air a sweet-smelling yet slightly damp quality. 

It's beautiful. It makes one feel peaceful. 

Saru folds his long limbs into a seat designed to accommodate Kelpien morphology and regards her over a steaming cup. "I would address these concerns with Specialist Tyler directly."

"They may be unfounded." Michael thins her lips. "I don't know enough to form an educated opinion and I don't wish to give offence through ignorance."

"Yet you are preoccupied." 

The problem with opening yourself up to people is that they start to know your tells. Even Vulcans have them and Michael is no Vulcan. "He seemed fragile. If there is something we could be doing to improve his condition, or accommodate his stay aboard the ship…" Never mind that a week ago, Michael was suggesting having him removed to the Klingon homeworld. 

Saru cocks his head. "You would say our hands are not sufficiently full at the moment?" On either side of their vahar'ai, Kelpiens are not above sarcasm. 

"I would say," Michael counters, "that we should treat this as a priority. We have the heir to the Klingon empire aboard the Discovery. It makes diplomatic sense to ingratiate ourselves with its future leader." 

"My understanding is that neither his mother nor his father wish that path for him."

"A parent's wishes don't necessarily influence the future." Is it a cheap shot bringing up her family's tragic death? Perhaps. But Saru knows her better than anyone, knows how to tread gently and not allow Michael's conversational parries to deter him. "Specialist Tyler mentioned that his son suffers from nightmares. Perhaps we could begin there."

"All for the sake of future diplomacy, of course." Saru doesn't shoot down the idea.

*

There was an incident, the last time Dr. Culber and Ash were in the same room together. Michael would've liked to avoid the possibility of another, but he's the only medic on duty when Ash brings his son in, at her suggestion, and by then it's too late to prevent another run-in. 

Culber's expression shutters when he's presented with his patient. His professional mask slides on in the next breath and he performs the checkup every bit as thoroughly and carefully as Michael could've wished. 

Ash stands by the medical cot the entire time: saying nothing, watching like a hawk. It doesn't take long for the results to come in.

"Your son appears to be perfectly healthy. It may help to lower the light intensity in your quarters if you find he gets restless."

"Sounds familiar," Ash murmurs under his breath. Then, a little louder: "The nightmares… do you think they could be a trauma response?" 

Culber synthesizes a vitamin supplement specifically adapted for a Klingon of indeterminate but clearly very young age. "Everyone dreams, even babies. We'll monitor his development going forward. I'd like to see him again in ten days." His tone is dismissive, but not hostile, and when he looks at the baby, the Ash's son is looking back at him, blinking slowly.

Michael walks Ash out of the infirmary, the baby sucking his thumb in his portable cradle. Maybe if she wasn't paying such close attention to them both, she'd miss Ash's sigh, the loosening of tension in his shoulders. 

"You're doing great." The words are out before she can stop them. And although they're little more than empty reassurance, she finds she means them.

Ash cuts her a sharp, startled glance. He looks like no one's told him that before. Presumably they haven't. And what does Ash Tyler know about raising a child? What did Voq? This can't be easy for either of them.

Michael nudges him with her elbow, but that's a bridge too far and they both stand stiffly as they wait for the elevator. "You should socialize him more. Klingons aren't so different from humans: we all need to be around other living beings. It's good for us." Michael's child-rearing research has been very contradictory in many respects, but at least in this regard all the parenting experts agree.

"You mean bring him on the bridge?" Ash shakes his head. "Somehow I think the captain would object."

"You never know. You could start small: the canteen, first. Then the captain's ready room." Today, a ship full of wide-eyed science officers. Tomorrow, an empire.

*

Ash proves unexpectedly cautious and starts small, even smaller than Michael's suggestion. She's not there to see it, too busy chasing her brother to the ends of the universe—or in this case, to Vulcan—but Tilly is ready with all the best gossip for when she gets back.

"I almost didn't believe it when Rhys told me," she confides in Michael, who has her eyes closed but isn't pretending to sleep. "I mean we all knew that he was hiding something—Ash, that is, not Rhys… although now that I think about it—" 

"Tilly."

"Hm? Oh, yeah. So, Ash has a kid." Tilly nudges her with a hand and Michael scoots over. Two point three seconds later, the mattress dips and adjusts as Tilly flops down beside her. "Or Voq, since the baby is one-hundred-percent. I'm guessing you knew? I'm not mad you didn't say anything. Top secret stuff, right? Is it even his? I want to say he looks like him, but he's pretty small. And kind of cute." 

Michael cracks open an eye. "It wasn't just Rhys who saw him?" Between Vulcan and Thalos IV, she hasn't slept in days. The adrenaline that kept her from flagging when Spock—when the mission—needed her most has finally left her system. 

But this is important, too. 

Tilly confirms that after the initial sighting, Ash has been taking his son out for regular strolls through the ship. He sticks to public, high-traffic areas, avoids the infirmary and hasn't been anywhere close to the engine room. She theorizes that it's to do with the spore drive, because who knows how that could affect a tiny baby?

"And then there's Stamets and Culber." Tilly's voice is half muffled by Michael's pillow now. "Who knows how they'd react. I'm so glad you're back; you can help me and Airiam protect the baby if Dr. Culber and Ash get into it again. We have a three-point strategy. I tried to get Bryce to join us, but he said he'll just tackle Ash and I think we all know how _that's_ likely to work out…"

Michael doesn't want to keep Tilly in the dark more than she already has, but she's too tired to get into the details of what she knows and what she thinks is likely just then. 

Tilly will understand. 

Her chatter lulls Michael into dreams where Ash's son, now fully grown, walks the deserted halls of an echoing temple, alone: mental debris, of course, since there's no such thing as prophecy. Especially since it's followed by an even more vivid dream of Ash and Bryce wrestling in jelly. 

*

"He's a baby," Kayla points out. 

"He is an infant, yes," Saru agrees, doctoring his coffee with plenty of hot sauce, "and therefore at a disadvantage against most predators. All the more reason to teach it—him—some basic self-defense before it is too late."

"I tend to agree." Philippa isn't eating with them; her presence makes the other officers uneasy, even if they don't all know, but likely suspect, that she isn't this universe's Captain Georgiou. She's hanging out in their vicinity, having come to retrieve Ash in person for a reason she made sure to refer to as obliquely as possible. It's almost like she enjoys making people uncomfortable. "What can be the harm?"

"Injury to himself and others," Michael points out. "Mostly himself." 

Ash deployed those big, milk-cow eyes of his when he asked her to look after his son and promised he would only be a minute. It's been three. This is a lot more responsibility than Michael is ready for, so she has one hand on the cradle and the other balled into a fist under the table's edge. The idea is that if anyone comes to close, she'll be ready, but also this way no one can see the tremor in her fingers. The rest of her is steady. In control. 

She has been reading a lot about infants lately. It shouldn't be hard.

Philippa spins Ash's chair around and straddles it. If she notices that her presence scatters what remains of Michael's lunch companions, she doesn't appear to care. "You'd rather see him defenseless against whatever threat we meet next?"

"They don't make bat'leth swords in his size."

Before Michael can stop her, Philippa plucks her commlink from her lapel and slips it into the baby's hands. Ash's son grips it tightly—Michael has read that it's instinctive in babies of this approximate age, across many races—and burbles something unintelligible. 

"Very good." Philippa slips her badge out of his tiny fingers again, though not far enough for his little face to contort in indignant sobs. "Now catch." 

And the baby does, or almost. It's not exactly hard and he can't exactly miss, but he's a baby and he delights in easy triumphs.

"Reflexes are good," Philippa comments. "Now let's teach you accuracy."

By the time Ash returns to retrieve him, his son has figured out that he can both catch and also sort of throw the commlink back at Philippa. Michael's fist is no longer clenched under the table. It really isn't that hard.

*

Philippa is still aboard the ship. Or perhaps she's left and come back, her movements about as predictable as those of a stray cat. But she's back on the Discovery when Michael next sits in on one of Pike's all-officers meetings, all of them gathered around the table, heads put together to resolve a seemingly unsolvable problem, when from the back of the room comes a baby's giggle. 

Spock pauses his fraught narrative. Admiral Cornwell cocks an eloquent eyebrow. 

"Sorry, sorry." Ash starts to pick up the cradle. "They're doing maintenance work on our level and I didn't know where else to leave him."

"It's alright, Specialist." Pike is doing a poor job of concealing the twitch of his lips. "We're all trained professionals here. I'm sure we can cope with a slight distraction."

Said slight distraction spends the next hour alternatively gurgling and giggling, seemingly fascinated by the sound of its own chirpy little voice. He chooses his moments well, too, chiming in when Philippa and the admiral lock horns, or when Michael and Spock's decades' old resentment threatens to boil over. 

Pike eventually calls an end to the less-than-productive meeting and dismisses them. On his way out of the conference room, Saru makes his way over to Ash and engages him in conversation regarding the ideal age at which a Klingon child should begin martial training. 

Michael is pretending to complete her notes, typing on the ion field around her holo-reader, but her attention is on them—and on Ash's son. Which is why she notices Philippa wander over and, behind Ash's back, just as Michael starts to tense, preparing to speak up, lean over and stick her tongue.

Ash's son stops trying to dislocate his little tiny legs and blinks up at her. From afar, it's impossible to read his expression.

Unfazed by a tough crowd, Philippa puffs up her cheeks like a blowfish. That does it. Ash's son giggles so hard he gives himself a case of the hiccups, which finally distracts Ash from his conversation with Saru. 

Philippa has walked away by then, poker-faced once more. 

When another signal appears a few hours later, Michael can safely say it's not even close to the strangest thing she's seen that day.


End file.
